


Blessings

by Calais_Reno



Series: Random Strangers [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Flashbacks, M/M, POV John Watson, PTSD John, Reverse Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:22:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: This is the final part of the Random Strangers series. It started with a letter addressed to a random stranger, ends here, at Reichenbach. The narrator is John, speaking to Sherlock throughout. Some parts are memory, others are reality, and others blend the two. John wrestles with his past while trying to solve the problem of Moriarty.This will make more sense if you have read the previous parts. There are echoes here from those stories.





	Blessings

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Благословение](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21692722) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> And a man wrestled with him until the breaking of the day… Then he said, “Let me go, for the day has broken.” But Jacob said, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” — Genesis 32

“How did you feel when you found out he was dead?” Ella asks.

I don’t know how to answer this. It’s still new, still something I’m thinking about. 

“He wasn’t evil,” I say. My feelings are mixed, I suppose. “But I’m glad he’s dead.”

Ella is quiet for a minute. Perhaps she didn’t expect this answer and needs a moment to process it. “When you say he wasn’t evil, do you mean that you’re not angry?”

 _Anger_ , I think. _Am I angry?_ Maybe I’ve lost the part of me that can feel anger.

Fear is something I _do_ know. I lived with it for three years. When you’re always afraid, anger is a luxury. You learn not to be angry because you have to save something for fear.

“I’m not angry.”

“It’s all right to be angry, John.” She regards me evenly. Not challenging me. “You haven’t talked about your recent abduction.”

Again, _fear_. “I was careless.”

“None of it was your fault. Are you sure you’re not angry?”

She lets me sit in silence for a long moment. I’m supposed to be working on some problem. Anger is a problem. My failure to express anger that I must surely feel.

 _Why me?_ That is what I am working on.

“Tell me what you’re feeling, John. That’s why we’re here. This is a safe place for you to work out your feelings.”

 _There are no safe places,_ I think. “Evil isn’t personal,” I say.

This is the problem of evil.

You look at me when I return to the flat. It is a look both protective and guilty. You blame yourself for what happened at the pool and hate to let me out of your sight. If you could, you might follow me around all day, just to make sure I’m not being kidnapped again.

You’re obsessed with Moriarty. You don’t know what he’s going to do yet, but when the time comes, you will protect me. He threatened me, kidnapped me, put me in an explosive vest. He burned the letter while I watched. You won’t let him burn me.

But he interests you. He is your counterpart, your foil. A consulting criminal. He will challenge you again, and you will accept.

When it begins, you won’t tell me.

“All right?”

I may never be _all right_ , but you’re not asking that. You’re asking my permission. “All right,” I say. _I will take care of you._

I’m trying to work on a problem. Not anger, but evil.

_Bob says that evil is not an impersonal, irrational force. It is not the antithesis of God, who made all things. If it were, it would be a paradox, for God, who is good, would have to have created evil._

_Instead, evil comes from people, he tells me. It is disobedience, a result of free will. God gave humans the law so they would rein in their immorality. People without law are dangerous, he says. That is evil._

I never argued this with him. I don’t really know what evil is. I only know that it exists.

Moriarty is a man without law. He chose me for a reason: I was weak and broken, and he wanted to use my weakness to break you. That was his plan.

He must continue to believe this.

I understand now. All the months I spent in a small room with a tiny window and one visitor, wondering what my life was for, thinking that no one was waiting for me, fearing death— all were prelude.

Here is their meaning: they were to prepare me for this.

Here is my destiny: I am a prisoner, but I am not broken. He doesn’t know that, and that is how I will defeat him.

Reflected light dances off the walls, and I am at the pool again. I can smell his aftershave, feel his expensive suit when his arm brushes against my face.

Bob chose me randomly. He formed me into the perfect tool of Moriarty’s destruction.

Moriarty thinks he is your match, your worthy opponent, the villain every hero needs.

But he’s wrong. You are not his match. I am.

I am your match, your aegis, the sidekick every hero needs.

I think how it will begin, and see how it will end. I am not afraid.

You’re a celebrity: _Hat Man, Boffin, Hero ‘Tec, Hero of Reichenbach_. People want to give you awards and gifts.

If you have a fault that will bring you trouble, it’s this: you lap up praise like a cat with a saucer of milk. You’re not vain, as I see it; you just have a praise deficit. In the same way I crave small spaces, quiet voices, and kindness, you need affirmation and praise— and a challenge.

I say nothing. There is nothing I can say. I know you, and I love you. You saved my life when I came back from Afghanistan. We were random strangers then, each carrying on in our own way, brought together by chance. I owe you everything, and more.

But I watch. Moriarty will set you up, I see. I just don’t know how yet. I wish I were brilliant, like you, and could stop this from happening. You will take the bait, whatever he offers. All I can do, though, is wait and watch and be ready. _I would die for you._

_Dying for another person is meaningless,_ Bob tells me. _Everyone dies. It’s only when you die for something you believe that death has meaning._

I know what he believed. I wonder what his death meant.

_Westerners think their lives matter, that each person, as an individual life, has some greater meaning. Only in the aggregate do we matter._

From a single drop of water, one could deduce an entire ocean. One could infer a cataract— a Niagra, a Reichenbach.

Moriarty is very smart. He understands how smart you are, observes the small vanity that underlies your quiet manner, the ego more fragile than it seems— and makes you look like a fake. _I owe you a fall,_ he says.

We argue about it. “It’s not worth it,” I tell you. “He thinks he can break you, but you’re stronger than he knows. Don’t let him get to you. Don’t play his game.”

You’re angry with me. “You’re worried that they’re right. You’re worried you’ve been taken in as well. Moriarty is playing with your mind too. _”_

I know what your fear looks like.

I lie next to you in our bed, dreaming that I am falling. I see water churning below, hear it roaring in my ears. Jerking awake, I open my eyes to see you looking at me.

“Just a dream,” you say. “Go back to sleep.”

You’ve lived with my PTSD for months now. You’ve soothed me back to sleep more times than I can count.

“I’m sorry, John. I know you’re worried. I’m sorry for what I said.”

People dream, whether they remember it or not. When your eyes are moving under closed lids, you’re dreaming. But dreams are easily forgotten. I know that I must dream, but when I wake, the details vanish. Just shadows. I don’t remember what I dreamed about in Afghanistan. The nightmares began after I was rescued. The only dreams I remember are the ones that wake me, screaming and shaking.

“What will you do?” I ask.

“Right now? I’m going to kiss you.” You do. It’s gentle, like a question. _All right?_

When you pull back, I can see your face by the light coming in from the streetlamp outside. I remember the first time I saw your face. Your voice, I knew from your letter. I hadn’t dared to imagine your face. When I saw it, though, I knew you.

You’re smiling.“And now, I’m going to kiss you again.” Shifting your body so you’re closer, you wrap your arms around me.

I think about the small room with one window, where I lived for three years. Thirty-eight months. One hundred and sixty-seven weeks. 1165 days. In all that time I talked to just one person, was touched by just one person. He had doctor’s hands— kind and efficient.

Your hands ghost down my back, beginning to seek into hidden places. I worship your body, but it is your hands I love most. Long fingers, delicate touch. Artist’s hands.

You once called me your greatest mystery. I melt into your hands. I will let you solve me.

When I was a captive in Afghanistan, I learned to listen. I began to understand that silence was the only thing I could choose. I might be beaten for refusing to speak, but the power of speech was mine. I listened. I waited.

_No one is waiting for you._

You’re restless, nervous, irritable. This is what fear looks like on you.

You think you’re alone, and that no one can solve this but you. You think that heroes stand alone against evil.

But I am watching you, and listening. When you’re silent, I hear what you don’t say.

“He won’t listen to me,” I tell Mycroft. “He is so fascinated with Moriarty that he doesn’t see how dangerous he is.”

He smiles. “And you think he will listen to me?”

“No, but you can head off this… this confrontation. You know who Richard Brook is and can expose him. You can save your brother’s reputation.”

“Do you seriously think that I have nothing better to do than keep Sherlock out of trouble? Quite a few of his present difficulties could have been prevented if he didn’t have this need to outsmart Moriarty.”

“Moriarty is—” I can’t finish the sentence in any way that would mean something to a man like Mycroft. To say a man is the _embodiment of evil_ sounds Biblical.

“I am aware of what Moriarty is,” he replies. “All the same, he is a man and just as prone to error as the rest of us.”

“You?” I say, laughing. “You don’t make _errors_ , Mycroft, do you?”

“We have been watching him, Doctor. I am not going to spring the mechanism until we can put him away for good.”

“It may be too late by then.”

“My brother is not an idiot,” Mycroft said. “He understands the risks and will take precautions.”

“Don’t you see where this is leading?” I ask. “You and your brother are a couple of brilliant fools if you don’t.”

Mycroft gives me a grim smile. “Doctor Watson, do you really think that anything could occur to you that hasn’t already occurred to me?”

This silences me. I know that he is brilliant and has probably seen twenty-seven possible outcomes to Sherlock’s confrontation with Moriarty, but I am not sure what costs he might consider acceptable.

“Sherlock is reckless,” I say. “His reputation is ruined. He doesn’t care what happens to him now.”

“He does, however, care very much what happens to you,” he replies. “That is what he has entrusted to me.” He smiles, and I can see his kindness. He loves his brother and will respect his wishes, even if they put my life before his own.

I shake my head. “There is no way for this to end well.”

“You are correct,” he says. “But there some options that are better than others. Go home, Doctor. There is nothing you can do. Leave this for me to sort out.”

I might know Moriarty better than you do— or your brother. You see him as your greatest rival. Mycroft sees him as an equation that can be solved.

You’ve never asked, but I know you wonder about those hours after I was kidnapped, before you saw me at the pool.

 _I could kill you,_ he said. _But I won’t._

I was silent.

_Don’t you want to know why?_

I already knew why.

_When you have lost all hope, death is a blessing._

I watched him burn the letter. This told me everything I needed to know.

Moriarty is not a magician. He wants you to believe that there is a magic code that makes him all-powerful. It’s the MacGuffin, the Holy Grail, the Philosopher’s Stone, the Golden Snitch. It doesn’t exist. But he’s made you want it, thinking it is the Omega Device that will set time back and let you defeat him.

But it will be much simpler than that.

_Perhaps we may one day meet._

The two of you, face to face, on equal ground.

_Come and play._

_Bart’s Hospital rooftop. SH_

_I’m waiting… JM_

It’s daylight and I’m walking across the roof of St Bart’s.

Moriarty sits on the raised ledge, looking at his phone. “I got your message.”

I stop several feet away.

“You used Sherlock’s phone.” He looks up at me, bored. “The faithful pet leaps in to save his master. Boring, and pointless. I’ve beaten him, you know.” He sighs. “Naturally, he doesn’t know yet. He’ll contact me, probably later today, say he’s got something for me. The code.” He laughs. “Too easy. All this time, I thought he was different, special. But he’s just ordinary.”

“You’re ordinary,” I say. “There’s no code. Just a petty criminal, bribing people to do his work.”

He stands and faces me, sneering. “And what are you going to do about it, _tough guy_?”

I saw Bob on the telly once. His goal was never to be famous, he always said. He was merely a man with a holy cause, obedient to Allah. It gave him a power that others lacked, he said. Most people cannot fully commit to what they believe. They never transcend the limits of the world.

I see him now, studying me with those strangely beautiful eyes, astonishingly blue in his dark face. A Pashtun man in a tunic and loose pants, holding my letter in one hand, a cigarette lighter in the other.

(Moriarty’s eyes are dark, soulless, like two black holes.)

 _Tough guy,_ he says. He flicks the lighter and a flame springs up.

(Fire reflects in those empty eyes.)

 _I could burn this._ He nods at the letter. _But I won’t. Do you know why?_

I know why. _When you have no hope, death is a blessing._

“I’m not afraid of you.” _Bless me._

(Moriarty smiles, flicks the lighter.)

My gun is in my hand.

 _No one is waiting for you._ He laughs. _You will never be free. I’m dead, and you can’t let me go._

I raise the gun, aiming it at his head. “I will not let you go unless you bless me.”

_I will burn you._

(Moriarty touches the flame to the letter. It begins to darken and curl, the flames licking it until there is nothing more for him to hold. The last words I can read are _… I remain … your random stranger…)_

 _I’m not afraid of you. Death doesn’t scare me._ “Bless me.”

Bob raises his hand and I can see ashes on his fingers. He touches my forehead. “Bârakah Allâh,” he says. “God’s blessing.” He steps back.

I pull the trigger.

Moriarty lies dead on the roof of Saint Bart’s Hospital, a hole in his forehead.

I drop the gun and fall to my knees, my hands raised. “Bless me,” I say.

The sniper’s first bullet hits my chest. The second pierces my throat.

I look up at the sky, drowning in my own blood.

Hope is gone. I have been blessed.

I died once before, in Afghanistan. An Oxford-educated Pashtun dug a bullet out of my shoulder. Once, he wanted to be a doctor. Instead, he became a terrorist.

I remember waking, hearing people speaking Pashto. I was alone in a small room with gauze taped to my shoulder, burning with fever. He came to me, treated my wounds, gave me antibiotics so I didn’t die.

I used to hear his voice. _I’ll take care of you, tough guy_. _I’ll keep you alive._

He is dead, but I remain.

I came back to England and found my random stranger. Bob was wrong. Someone was waiting for me. I lived.

And I am not dead now.

When I wake in hospital, you’re sitting there, looking at me, your beautiful eyes red, your lovely face harrowed with fear.

“John.” You take my hand in yours.

I am silent. There is a tube in my throat, and I wonder if I will ever speak again, if I will ever be able to tell you how much I love you. I close my eyes.

You squeeze my hand, and I feel your lips touch my forehead. I am blessed.

Much later, you explain why I didn’t die.

“I found the message you sent him from my phone. That was…” You fall silent, eyes squeezing out tears, a fist pressed to your mouth. When you finally speak, your voice is rough. “I called emergency services, because I didn’t think I’d make it in time to stop you. When I got here, they were loading you on a stretcher. They wouldn’t let me see you. You were in surgery for hours.” You look at me, your eyes overflowing. “I thought I’d lost you, John.”

 _You won’t lose me,_ I think. _You’ll never lose me._

“Mycroft’s people had already taken down the other snipers. It was the last one who got you.” You fall silent again, your face screwed up with sorrow. “Two bullets. It was a blessing he didn’t fire a third shot.”

 _You are my blessing._ I raise my hand to touch your face, wipe the tears.

“Thank God. You’re going to be all right.”

I sleep then. As all dreams do, mine concern things that haven’t happened. A path above a waterfall. You falling, dying. You leaving me. We never know the things that might have happened. They come to us in dreams, as insubstantial as our fears.

I remain, your random stranger.


End file.
